Gipuhn Mauhm Deep Heart
by B2
Summary: I hate those words, I loved you. [Eriol x Tomoyo]


Even though I love you

Dedicated to Tin Mandigma

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The sorrow is all right now

Now that I understand your heart

I hate those words "I loved you"

Until the end, show me your smile

From _Even Though I Love You. . ._

Written by Kim Jin Ryong

Sung by Jo Sung Mo

Translated by B.Na

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Gi-puhn Ma-uhm 

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They were the only ones left in the room. Half-filled glasses, empty trays—the last gleaming remnants of the guests who departed long ago.

Eriol sat, his dark head resting wearily against the back of an armchair. His tie hung undone at his neck, the high formal collar of his dress shirt unloosened. But he was not easy, not relaxed. No, that was impossible—not with that slender figure perched upon the seat before him. He closed his eyes, but he could still see her there on the divan, her pale dress glowing faintly in the darkness.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" Tomoyo asked absently. 

"Yes, I suppose it was," he replied, his eyes still closed. 

"It was a lovely party," she murmured. Her voice was carefully neutral. "Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves." 

She wanted to say something, he knew. But she sat quietly, poised elegantly along the velvet edge of the divan. She was waiting. 

For what? Eriol wondered tiredly. For what? 

"Yes," he responded finally. "It was a lovely party." 

Tomoyo looked to the dark nook in which he sat. She could see nothing but the eerie glow of his glasses, the lenses catching the moonlight and reflecting it back in two empty pools of silver. No, not empty, she amended silently, but expressionless. Yes, unreadable. Windows to the soul, she said mockingly to herself. But not his. No, his eyes showed nothing, guarded as they were behind full, fringed lids and coolly sardonic brows.

"You must be tired. It's been a long night," she said lightly.

"Indeed."

"Everyone had a charming time, I'm sure."

And she continued to wait for him. Biding her time with polite, hackneyed phrases—the stale, moth-eaten conventions of conversation. Only made a little bright with her clear, silvery tone. But what does she want me to say? What does she want to know? For surely, surely, she must suspect. Surely she knew. 

"I'm glad."

But she could see it in that curving mouth, hear it in the rich, resonant cadence of his voice. She knew the truth. Though the faultless, handsome mask revealed nothing. Only smiled and beamed and grinned. 

She hated that face.

"Would you mind if I opened a window? The room feels a little hot."

"Please."

As Tomoyo rose, he heard the soft rustle of her dress, smelled her faint perfume. He sat motionless, his eyes shut. But he could see her moving across the room, graceful, lissome. Like grasses swayed by the wind. Or petals floating through the air. 

But her beauty unnerved him, disarmed him. Again and again and again. For the heartbreaking loveliness that was she—the lucent quality of her sad eyes, the radiance of her skin, the delicate lines of her sensitive mouth had drawn him, unwillingly, irrevocably, to her. 

But when did it start? he asked himself. At a word, a careless caress? When did it all begin? But he couldn't remember. He knew that it had no definite beginning. Nothing as simple as that. No, he thought, nothing that easy. 

But he remembered the night of his undoing. 

She had come to him that still June evening. They were in the park for the night was too hot. And as they sat beneath the trees, she told him. Told him everything. And she was crying, clutching his shirt, her tears soaking into his shirt, his skin. 

And he remembered, as he held her in his arms, her perfume had drifted upwards, filling his nose, clouding his head with its dizzying scent. He had touched her then—perhaps to tuck a stray lock of her dark hair behind her ear or to smooth the rumpled collar of her blouse. His fingers had trembled slightly, as if loathe to disturb that aching loveliness. Sacred. Inviolable. Touch her and it is done, he thought. But he could not resist. Was powerless to resist. And she in response reached out, tentatively, her slender fingers brushing against his lips with a feathery caress. Then she reached out again, pressing her own mouth against his. 

He couldn't remember what happened after that. It was, as they say, a blur. And he was thankful for that darkness in his mind, that passionless dimness. It's easier to forget, Eriol reminded himself. So much easier.

But it wasn't. It wasn't easy. He couldn't forget. He could never forget. For the touch of her lips and the warmth of her hands had been branded into him—burned onto the places where she had put her hands, scorched onto the places where she had put her mouth. And now it was all he could remember, all he could see.

So now, even when I close my eyes, I still see her there before me.

"Eriol-kun?"

And it hurt. Hurt him dreadfully. And he couldn't bear it anymore. So, he vowed, it must end. Tonight.

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Tomoyo-san."

She knew he was lying. It was all a disguise. Deceit. He was terribly, desperately unhappy. Hiding, always hiding, Tomoyo said to herself. As if that wooden smile could conceal his sorrow. 

But why is he hiding from me? Her fingers dug into the pale folds of her dress. Why? 

But she already knew. Found out long ago. Yet she dared not name it. I spoke long ago, she reminded herself. I told him everything.

Yes, she spoke to him. Not with words but with her mouth. Not with looks but with her hands. On that still June evening she told him everything. Confessed. Renounced. But it still wasn't enough. Only hid away behind his mask, saying nothing in response. Smiling, affable, friendly, as always. Why would it be any different? she asked herself. Why should it be any different?

Tomoyo fixed her eyes once more to the dark nook in which he sat. Again, those two full circles of light met her, cold and blank. His face seemed to mock her as if to say, You were a fool to try. 

Yes, Tomoyo agreed silently. Yes.

He would always hide from her. He would never say anything. Even though she had told him everything. 

And she turned away, unable to bear the mask before her.

"Better now?" he asked her.

"Yes, thank you."

Eriol opened his eyes. He saw her standing there at the window, illumined by the light of the rising moon. An unbearable longing rose within him, spreading over him like the heat of a sultry June night. Caressing him, tracing a pattern of wanton yearning across those secret places. Places he longed to forget but never could. Burned as they were across his soul, his body—marked by her hands and lips. Always hers.

But touch her and it is done. Know her once more and it is done.

So end it, he told himself fiercely. End it tonight. 

Ah, but it's too late for that. You've already begun. 

But when did it all begin? he wondered once again. Yet he already knew. It began long before that June evening. It was only then on that hot June night that he lost himself. 

But I knew, didn't I? Eriol asked himself. I knew for years. But I was afraid. Fearful of her heart—terrified of what I would find. I understood the consequences.

And he did. He knew it all too well. He, who could gaze across the landscape of time, had known what would follow. He foresaw all. He knew the truth behind her kisses, her roaming hands. But he had surrendered himself, nonetheless. Willingly, completely—heart and soul—all of him. For her.

I'm such a fool, he thought. A coward. 

Again the words sounded in his mind: It must end. Tonight.

But can it really be that simple? Eriol asked himself. He wanted to laugh. It was preposterous, really. It wasn't something that you could throw away, as easily as a faded flower or a broken glass. Oh, no. It was never that simple. If only it could be that easy. If I could just walk away and forget her, forget everything— 

But that was impossible. He would always remember. 

"You have something to say, don't you?" she asked.

But it must end. Tonight. 

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving," she repeated. 

"Yes. Tonight."

She paused. "On vacation?"

He smiled at that. "No. I'm going back—to England."

Tomoyo moved slightly. Whether it was a movement of surprise or anger, he couldn't tell. 

"Why?"

"I've business to do at home." 

"Tell me." 

"I already did."

"No, you haven't."

"I have pressing matters to attend to."

"Name them." And her voice held a threat, a warning. . .and a plea.

He ignored it. "Quite prosaic things, really," he replied, waving his hand airily. "I don't want to bore you." 

"Tell me," she repeated softly. "Don't hold back." 

"I'm not," he answered lightly.

Again, that same blithe unconcern. That same inscrutable expression. Why do you hide away beneath that façade? she wanted to scream. Why won't you show me? But instead she quietly replied, "You're lying."

"Me? Really, Tomoyo-san, how unfair," Eriol said, his tone playful, bantering. "Am I not always open with you?"

She felt a wing-beat of fear at the lilting nonchalance of his voice. "Be serious," she chided, keeping her voice steady. Yes, please, for once, don't hide.

"But I am serious. Deadly serious." 

She looked at him. His dark eyes met her gaze, blank and impassive. Again, Tomoyo saw the same bland, implacable mask. A blind rage suddenly seized her. She wanted to tear at his face, dig her fingers into his flesh, pull apart that smiling mouth. Strip away the bright veneer. Till there was nothing left. 

"But there are layers and layers," she whispered to herself. Mask on top of mask. Strip one mask away, there is always another different one beneath it. You can waste years—a lifetime in trying.

And she had no more time.

"Don't lie. Tell me now."

"It's too late," he whispered as if to himself. 

"What do you mean?"

Don't you understand? Can't you see? He looked at her, his eyes silently begging her. You must know. But her silence told him that she did not.

"I see." And that was all he said.

"Why do you do this?" she demanded suddenly, quietly. 

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"Why do you do this?" she asked him again.

"What?"

"This!" she cried, throwing up her hands, a vague, summary gesture. 

"I don't understand what you're talking about, Tomoyo-san."

"Eriol-kun, please. . ." And that silvery voice took on a breakable quality. Like glass, frail, thin and transparent. "Just tell me. . ."

But he said nothing.

"Why are you doing this?"

Eriol was silent still.

"Why do you not speak? Why do you hide away from me?" Abruptly, Tomoyo whispered, "Why can't you show me your heart?"

She searched his face. But she saw nothing. Only the still handsome mask, the familiar mask she hated so much. Suddenly, Tomoyo spun away, laughing. A bitter, drear sound. "I should have known. I'm a fool." She laughed again. "Of course. You were always like this."

"Yes." 

"You never told me anything." 

"Yes."

"I never understood your heart." 

"Yes." 

"That's it, then?" She wanted to laugh again. That phrase sounded so banal, so theatrical. But, really, those words were so terribly sincere.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," she cried sharply. 

"I'm—" He stopped short and smiled. "Habit, I suppose."

Tomoyo drew in a breath. Habit. That was it. Habit. Yes, a habit to hide behind a bright smile, an artificial optimism, a blinding contentment. Easier to hide beneath a mask, easier to cower behind a wall—just as long as you could protect yourself from pain. But it's not that easy, is it? It's not that simple.

But Tomoyo wanted to believe it. How desperately she wanted to believe it. But she knew it really wasn't that easy.

"Yes, I suppose," she agreed faintly. 

Eriol rose. Tomoyo listened to the faint creak of his chair, the rasp of his clothes against the upholstery. She could sense his approach, the measured tread of his feet upon the floor. She feared to turn. For she knew that face would mock her. Tell her again that she was a fool. And she wanted, again, to destroy that mask. Tear away the lies and pretension. Look past his unhappiness.

See his heart.

He stopped behind her. She could feel him, the heat of his body like hands pressing down on her shoulders, her back, oppressive and heavy. And that face, that awful face would be there, with its solemn eyes and its upturned mouth. Taunting, teasing, laughing.

"Tomoyo-san. . ."

His glasses fell, cracking upon the stone floor. She beat him, striking wildly, blindly. But he stood still against the buffeting force of her blows. He felt the blood trickle down from his brow, felt the sting of her nails upon his cheeks. She made no sound, but he heard her, every blow a cry of rage, every ragged gasp a savage curse.

And he welcomed the pain. Eriol spread his arms wide, exultant. 

So much easier, he thought. So much easier.

She felt his mouth give way to her frantic hands, felt his eyes rip open. Her fingers tore, clawed, shred. Destroyed. Soon, soon, she thought. She felt him, warm, pulsing, beneath her palms. At last. At last.

But when she looked up, a faint, rueful smile touched his lips. His eyes beamed softly down upon her with the barest trace of amusement. The mask was there as before. She fell to her knees. 

Always hiding from me. Always. She bowed her head, defeated.

"I hate you," she whispered. "I hate you."

He watched her tears stain the flags, stirring the quiet dust. Leave, he told himself angrily. Leave her. But he continued to stand over her, mesmerized by her tears. Compelled by their shining, painful beauty. His hand moved towards her, aching to capture those tears, feel them against his skin, taste them in his mouth. Like he did that June evening.

No. He pulled his hand back. Touch her and it is done.

But it's too late. 

He knelt down, drawing back the dark curtain of her hair, tilting her face up to meet his. Commanding with that gentle hand, Look. It is as it was. So she obeyed.

It will be there, as it always has been.

She looked to him, her features dull, vacant. Lovely, lifeless mask. But her eyes, her eyes were wide, open. Baring her heart before him.

And the mask fell away. And all that was left were the pain and suffering of the years in his eyes and in the lines about his mouth.

I'm a fool, she thought. I'm such a fool. 

He reached out and she took his hand, placing it against her cheek. You see now, don't you? You understand? And he looked at her and knew that she did. 

No more need for words. 

Her lips parted to speak but he pressed his finger against them. "Don't say anything," he whispered. "I don't want to hear it."

"Don't go," she begged softly. "Don't leave me." She clutched his hand, crushing it against her mouth. "Don't go." She pressed her lips against the tip of his finger. "Don't go." 

"When I leave, I want to see you smile. Just one last time." 

"I can't. Not like this."

"Please. Just this once," he pleaded. Smile and say nothing. Don't speak. If you say it, I'll be lost. If she spoke, he knew, he would surely— 

Suddenly, she pressed her mouth against his, all the while her hot whispers raging into the hollow inside him, "Don't go, don't go, don't leave me."

So this is what it's like, he thought wonderingly, closing his eyes against his tears. The heart unmasked, exposed. And as his hungry lips sought her throat, her breast, he felt empty, weary.

"Please," Tomoyo whispered. 

"Don't say it," Eriol begged her, covering her mouth with his. "I don't want to hear it."

So she kissed him instead. And that night, that hot June night, threatened to overcome his resolve once more. It would be a blur, he thought despairingly. It would dissolve, melted away by the heat of her hands on his skin, her soft lips against his own. And he would be undone once more—lost again in that darkness that was her eyes and hair, blinded again by that luminous light that was her skin.

Not again. Never again. 

He gently pushed her away. "I have to leave."

"Eriol-kun. . ."

"Smile," he whispered, walking away. Before the threshold, Eriol paused and looked back. Tomoyo stood in the middle of the room. She was smiling through her tears. She had kept her promise. He turned away and closed the door softly behind him.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

  1. Dedicated to Tin Mandigma—the author whose works brought about my ExT fetish and who so graciously allowed me to dedicate this work to her (and who also so kindly refrained from sending me to the insane asylum).
  2. For the idly curious, the lyrics and the title of this work are all in Korean. The romanization of the title is horribly off, I'm sure. Moreover, my Korean ain't the best—far from it—and I took a few liberties with the translation to make it flow more smoothly. I hope I didn't botch it up too much. ^_^; 


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